“Come, write in my ‘Omnibus,’” said a sweet girl to me, with an eye
that made one’s heart bump, and a lip that made him dream dreams. I
looked into that eye, and at that lip--they almost unmanned me, yet I
shook my head.
She looked imploringly.
“Can’t,” stammered I at last, though it choked me to say so.
“Pray do,” and she laid her soft white hand on mine. Heavens and Earth!
how the touch of that little hand thrilled through me--burnt along my
arm--then down into my heart. Yet I remembered my resolution--I made
it the day before--I swore by my happiness I’d never touch pen again.
Still, there lay that hand--the long tapering fingers--I counted
them one way, then t’other--how pretty they looked! I tried to look
away--I looked at the four corners of heaven--some how or other, my
eyes came right back again. Then I felt a soft pressure, those fingers
contracted, they clasped--it was all over with me--the grasp of
Hercules were nothing to it.
The first thing I did was to kiss them--the next, find my senses. She
blushed, I fidgeted.
“Think out something”--the sound was like a brook in summer.